


Take a Chance on Second Chances

by Caelanmiriel



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathing, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, First Time Bottoming, Gift Giving, Lambert likes botany fight me, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Top Lambert, Witcher Courting Rituals, blood mentions, bottom jaskier, brief description of animal death in the context of hunting for food, monster and animal butchery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:34:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27993852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caelanmiriel/pseuds/Caelanmiriel
Summary: He turns on his heel to stalk back to the road, prepared to sleep in a ditch instead if he must, when he hears a goading laugh behind him.“What’s the matter, afraid of sharing with a witcher? We don’t bite, you know?”Perhaps not, but they certainly know how to bark, and Jaskier is done backing down from them. He stomps back over and shoves his hand out, face steely. “Julian Alfred Pankratz, also called the bard Jaskier. You’re of the wolf school. Are you Eskel, or Lambert? I understand Vesemir no longer walks the path.”There’s a very satisfying moment where the witcher looks as if he’s been slapped about the face by a nekker, utterly bewildered, but then he ruins it by opening his mouth. “Well shit, you’re Geralt’s bard!"
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Comments: 40
Kudos: 436





	Take a Chance on Second Chances

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Symbolic_Deviant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Symbolic_Deviant/gifts).



The absolute last thing Jaskier wants after the self-pitying bullshit Geralt threw at him on the mountain is another witcher, but oh, how destiny hates him. It’s barely been a month after his lonely descent down the mountain, and here he is, minding his own business, innocently looking for a suitable spot in the forest to spend another cold night in the dirt, only to find a witcher’s already beaten him to it. And because destiny really fucking loathes him, there’s a wolf medallion around the witchers neck.

No. No fucking thank you.

He turns on his heel to stalk back to the road, prepared to sleep in a ditch instead if he must, when he hears a goading laugh behind him.

“What’s the matter, afraid of sharing with a witcher? We don’t bite, you know?”

Perhaps not, but they certainly know how to bark, and Jaskier is done backing down from them. He stomps back over and shoves his hand out, face steely. “Julian Alfred Pankratz, also called the bard Jaskier. You’re of the wolf school. Are you Eskel, or Lambert? I understand Vesemir no longer walks the path.”

There’s a very satisfying moment where the witcher looks as if he’s been slapped about the face by a nekker, utterly bewildered, but then he ruins it by opening his mouth. “Well shit, you’re Geralt’s bard! Should’ve known I’d run into you eventually. Where is the cantankerous bastard?”

Jaskier feels fury settle in his gut, like the punch he’d been delivered in Posada. He’s hot and cold all at once, heartbroken and achingly furious. He considers, just for a moment, smashing his lute over the witchers head like he should have Geralt, but amazingly the witcher seems to realise he’s put his foot in it.

“Or not. Definitely not.” He rubs the back of his neck, like a child getting a telling off. “You uh, you wanna talk shit over some food or something? There’s deer in the area.”

“Eskel, or Lambert?” Jaskier grinds out, trying to calm his breathing. He’d been gearing up for a fight, and wasn’t expecting to have the wind taken out of his sails so quickly.

The witcher finally reaches out to take Jaskier’s still-outstretched hand and shakes it briefly. “Lambert. I’m Lambert. I’ve got booze.”

And well, if that doesn’t just cheer him up. “You should’ve led with that.” He crosses the little clearing to carefully set down his lute, taking the moment to subtly look over Lambert as he secures his pretty dapple-grey horse; close-cropped dark hair, aquiline nose, _unfairly_ handsome. He’d thought that was only a Geralt thing, and isn’t sure if he’s annoyed to be proven wrong. Truth be told he’d rather be _anywhere_ else, but he refuses to be scared off, and he’ll never turn down a free drink. “Please tell me it’s vodka you have, because if you’re about to offer me anything like the piss Rivians call ale I’m going to be _very_ upset.”

“Anyone ever tell you alcohol can’t solve all your problems?” Lambert drawls, but he’s grinning, smart and wicked. “’course it’s vodka, the fuck you take me for? Look, you get a fire going, I’ll go catch us some dinner, then we’ll get you shitfaced and you can tell me exactly what the whoreson did this time.”

Jaskier hates that he blushes so easily; he’s sure Lambert can smell his embarrassment anyway, but he’d rather not advertise it for all to see. “I, ah, don’t know how, I’m afraid.”

Lambert raises an eyebrow critically. “You travelled with him for how many years, and you don’t know how to make a fire?”

“Twenty years. And no.” Jaskier winces, sure this is the part where he’s berated again for being an unworthy travel companion and sent on his way. “Geralt was never inclined to teach me, and when I wasn’t with him I had more important things to be concerned with.”

“Yeah, he was probably too busy shoving that stick further up his ass,” Lambert snorts. “Fuck it, _I’ll_ teach you, and then you can help me hunt, if you like. Nothing like a bit of labour to take your mind off shit am I right?”

He claps a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, warm and friendly as he manhandles him to his feet and into the trees. For a short time Jaskier feels thoroughly wrong footed, buffeted about by a whiplash of emotions; the cold shock of finding another witcher, the relief that it hadn’t been Geralt, the anger that’s been simmering since he left the mountain. It’s a volatile mix, yet Lambert seems cheerfully impervious to the tension Jaskier drags along with him. Geralt hadn’t spoken about Lambert often, but whenever he had he’d complained voraciously about about the man’s attitude, yet Jaskier finds him to be delightfully boisterous. He talks without prompting, points out countless interesting things while he instructs Jaskier in the type of wood he should be collecting; it’s like he knows Jaskier’s mind aches to learn and, he was right, it _does_ distract him. As the light starts to fail and Jaskier begins to stumble, he’s certain he’s about to get snapped at and reminded how useless he is, but Lambert is nothing but patient, a steadying hand on Jaskier’s elbow as he leads him back to their camp.

Lambert doesn’t hand over the vodka until after he’s shown Jaskier how to build their fire, then leaves him with the bottle while he disappears off to hunt, too dark now for Jaskier’s woefully human eyes. By the time he comes back with an impressive doe over his shoulders, Jaskier has drunk away all his discomfort, hails Lambert’s return like an old friend. He helps Lambert hang the deer from a tree (and is quietly pleased when Lambert is surprised by his strength), then as Lambert shows him how to prep the deer he tells the whole sorry story of him and Geralt, right from the start. When Jaskier curses Geralt to the stars, Lambert joins in with enthusiasm, then launches into a slew of embarrassing stories about both of his brothers. As they pass the vodka back and forth, they trade increasingly ridiculous jokes. Lambert laughs often and loudly.

It’s…nice.

“Are you quite sure it’s safe for me to touch these things?” Jaskier asks, scrunching up his nose in doubt.

“’Course. You think I’d fuck you like that?” Lambert’s sitting with his back against the end of the bed, saddlebags between his legs as he pulls out bottles and pestle and mortar. “It’s only toxic when you put it together, and only then when you drink it.”

Jaskier makes a dubious noise, but rolls up his sleeves anyway and sits opposite Lambert, legs crossed and an open notebook beside him. Surprisingly, Lambert hadn’t ditched Jaskier in the first town they’d come upon, and seems to have taken it upon himself to fill in all the gaps in Jaskier’s ‘travelling with witchers’ knowledge. Part of him suspects he’s doing it to fuck with Geralt, but it’s not like Jaskier, still bitter, is against that. Besides, he _likes_ Lambert, and Lambert seems to like him. It’s been almost two months, and Lambert hasn’t told him to shut up or piss off once.

“Alright, we’re gonna start with Blizzard. You remember what that one does?”

Jaskier thinks for a moment, tapping his quill on his chin. “That’s the bright blue one? That one’s reflexes.”

“You know them by colour but not by name?”

“Geralt never told me the names,” Jaskier says with a shrug, “just grunted and pointed at what he needed.”

Lambert snorts. “Sounds about right. Yeah, Blizzard’s the reflex one. Step one is White Gull, got plenty of that. Step two, Celandine, four petals.” He holds up a bundle of bright yellow flowers with glossy petals, almost like a buttercup, only with more petals, long instead of round. “Don’t put your fingers in your mouth after you touch this because it’s kinda poisonous. Not fatally for humans but it won’t exactly be fun. Flowers March through May, so you’ve got a good couple of months to collect it in the wild, otherwise you’ll have to go to a mage, they do some shit to the soil so they can grow it year round. You’re gonna wanna look for bare, damp ground, it likes a sandy soil, somewhere wet but not totally waterlogged. It actually spreads really well through flooding, there were heavy floods maybe a decade again that took it down into Nilfgaard, it’s an invasive species down there, they call it the fig buttercup but the variety they have is actually the Coppernob, while up north we have the Brazen Hussy –“

He cuts himself off suddenly and looks at Jaskier, who isn’t writing down a word Lambert said but is instead gazing at him with fascination and soft eyes.

“…What?”

“You’re really into this stuff, huh?”

“Yeah, so what if I am?”

Jaskier pretends he doesn’t see the self-conscious scowl and points at a bowl of white, star-like flowers. “Tell me about that one.”

Lambert _beams_.

Jaskier likes to watch Lambert fight from up a tree, if he has time to scale one. It’s the perfect vantage point to observe both Lambert and monster, keeps him out of harm’s way (sometimes), and provides a great opportunity to throw things if Lambert needs a bit of back up. Which he hasn’t, so far, because Lambert truly makes fighting an _art_. He’s light-footed even by witcher standards, supernaturally flexible and impressively creative. Jaskier’s papers are a jumbled mix of notes on the fight and compositions, both of them trying to flow from his mind and onto the page at the same time, desperate not to miss a second of the action and to immortalise Lambert, glorious in the fight.

He remains wedged in his perch scribbling down stanzas even after the final endrega corpse hits the ground. There’s something about being in Skellige that shakes the songs from his soul, like he can feel the tales that linger in the earth, hear the keening of the trees, the rocks, the mist.

“Are you coming down or what?”

Jaskier glances up briefly to see Lambert with his bloody hands planted on his hips, and waves him off impatiently. The thread of the ballad is still weaving through his heart, and Lambert knows by now that he’ll get nothing more out of Jaskier until it’s unravelled and released him.

When Jaskier comes back to the world, Lambert’s leaning against an adjacent tree, cleaning the blood from beneath his nails with a knife. Jaskier tucks his notebook back into his bag and clambers down from the tree, landing beside the body of an endrega and narrowly missing covering his boots in entrails.

Lambert glances up, then points at Jaskier with his knife. “That’s my fucking shirt. Have you been wearing my shirt this whole time?”

“So observant, you witchers are,” Jaskier teases. “Thought I’d help you slice up the spoils, but I don’t wanna get anything icky on my nice clothes.”

“What, and my clothes aren’t nice?”

Jaskier snorts. “You’ve _definitely_ had worse things on this shirt. You can handle a little monster goo, but my silks absolutely can’t.”

Lambert sighs, flips the knife around in his hand and offers it to Jaskier handle-first. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Jaskier takes the knife and winks. “I’m cute _and_ I’m smart.”

“Yeah yeah, whatever. Take the hides off for me. Same principle as a deer, but the hide’s tougher, so go carefully. I’ll handle everything else. You remember what I can use from an endrega?”

Jaskier kneels down by a corpse, the blood immediately soaking through the knees of the rough spun trousers he’d worn specifically for this purpose. He’s not afraid to get his hands dirty, but his clothes are _expensive_ , and there’s no sense in dirtying them if he can avoid it. “Teeth and jaw,” he says as he works the knife under the hide, tongue poking out in concentration. “Venom, saliva, embryo if there is one.”

“And which bit do I do first?”

He could look up, take a peek at whatever it is Lambert’s collecting, but he doesn’t want to cheat, and more to the point, he’s pretty confident he doesn’t need to. “The saliva. Can’t collect any saliva if you’ve already ripped out the jaw,” he says cheerfully.

“You’re good at this,” Lambert says approvingly, “a real quick learner.”

Jaskier grins over at him, and while Lambert grins back, he quickly looks away; he doesn’t think he should admit he likes the way Jaskier looks covered in blood, feral and bright.

Lambert takes it back. He doesn’t like the way Jaskier looks covered in blood. Not when it’s his own.

“What the _fuck_ happened,” he growls as soon as Jaskier limps into their room, then immediately regrets it, bracing himself for the inevitable flinch, the recoil at the reminder that witchers are animals - only it never comes.

Jaskier stumbles his way over, wiping the blood from his nose on the sleeve of his shirt – _Lambert’s_ shirt, he’s wearing it again – and lets himself fall against Lambert’s side. He lets out a little sigh, one of relief, like he’s fucking _comforted_ to be in Lambert’s arms. Sometimes, this odd little bard makes Lambert’s head spin.

“Ran into some unsavoury chaps outside,” Jaskier says, words sounding odd and strained as he tries to talk around his split lip. “Clearly, the next time someone calls me a witcher’s whore I should just keep walking instead of asking if they’re jealous.”

Lambert snarls before he can stop himself. “This was because of me.”

“Oh, dear heart, no.” Jaskier smiles softly at him, rests a hand on Lambert’s cheek like _he’s_ the one that needs comforting. “This was because of _them_. Their prejudice is hardly your fault. And neither is my reputation. You forget, I spent twenty years traipsing around singing songs about another witcher. I’m not ashamed of that, and I wouldn’t be ashamed if I _was_ your whore. In fact, quite frankly, I’m amazed you’re not taking the opportunity.”

He winks salaciously, and it startles a laugh from Lambert. This _fucking_ bard.

Lambert carefully deposits Jaskier on the bed. “Take your shirt off.”

“Melitele’s glorious tits, I wasn’t expecting you to move that fast.”

“Fuck, no!” Lambert splutters as Jaskier begins to cackle, “I just meant – fuck you, you know what I meant. Take your fucking shirt off.”

There’s a basin of water on a table by the tiny window, and he stomps over to gently heat it with igni, listening to Jaskier’s chuckles die down, keeping an ear out for any hisses of pain in case Jaskier tries to lie and say he’s less injured than he is.

Jaskier’s scent abruptly sours into misery, chasing the good cheer from the room. “I’ve hurt my wrist more than I thought,” he admits sadly.

“I’ll strap it up for you,” Lambert promises, bringing the basin over to where Jaskier is shirtless and wrapped in the sheets on the bed, looking downtrodden. “It’ll be fine.”

“It’s a disaster,” Jaskier insists, “I won’t be able to play, how is a bard supposed to stay relevant if he can’t perform.”

Lambert rummages around in his bags until he finds a couple of clean rags, and settles himself on the bed in front of Jaskier. “You can still sing, can’t you? Mouth works fine. Or just take the time to compose and make a grand comeback with your magnum opus or whatever the fuck.”

“Oh! That’s not such a bad idea! I _did_ get a lot of material while we were in Skellige, I can probably weave that into an epic song cycle that’ll blow all the white wolf ballads out of the water –“

“Stay _still_ , for fucks sake,” Lambert huffs, taking Jaskier’s chin in his hand to try to keep him from squirming as he gets carried away with the possibilities. Jaskier does fall quiet as Lambert dips one of the rags in the warm water and begins gently wiping the blood away, but his eyes are still vibrant with inspiration, so Lambert lets him have the peace to compose in his head.

Although he’s plenty bloody, Lambert’s careful ministrations don’t reveal anything too severe; most of the blood seems to have come from a wound on his head, probably from either falling onto something or being hit with something. It isn’t deep enough to warrant stitches, thankfully, but even after years on the path Lambert is still always surprised with how much head wounds bleed. His hair is heavily matted together, but Lambert takes the time to clean it all away and comb through the hair with his fingers until it sits as neat as always. The movement of it seems to soothe Jaskier, humming a little melody to himself while Lambert works. His eyes have started to swell in a way that foretells two spectacular black eyes, but knowing Jaskier he’ll probably spin it into some dashing tale.

With Jaskier’s shirt off Lambert can see a constellation of marks that speak of several boots to the chest, and they’re certainly going to be sore, even with the salve Lambert can work in; he takes a few minutes to carefully check for broken ribs first, finds none, and can work the salve in without worry of causing more injury. Jaskier takes it all with good grace until Lambert begins strapping up his wrist – Lambert’s being more careful than he’s ever been, but Jaskier still hisses dramatically until Lambert slaps the damp rag into his face and he begins to laugh, bright again.

“You’ll be fine,” Lambert promises, handing his cloak to Jaskier to use as an extra blanket to wrap himself up into. He watches him wriggle around until he gets thoroughly comfortable, cloak pulled all the way up to his nose, then pulls on his boots and stomps towards the door once he knows Jaskier is settled and fine. “I’m heading out for a bit. Get some air, check on the horse. Stay here and rest up.”

He slips out the door before Jaskier can call him out on his bullshit excuse. At least he left his swords in the room.

When he comes back to the tavern, he runs into Jaskier on the stairs. He doesn’t have his lute, but is clearly on his way down to perform, dressed up in one of his nicer doublets. They stare at each other for a moment, then seem to come to a silent agreement that Lambert will ignore the fact that Jaskier isn’t resting, and Jaskier in turn will ignore Lambert’s split knuckles, the blood that isn’t his own plastered all over him.

If anything, Jaskier looks a little touched, and presses a kiss to Lambert’s cheek that sparks fire through his body, and Lambert rumbles smugly.

“Go clean up then come downstairs, I’ll earn us some food in the meantime,” Jaskier promises, then sweeps past Lambert down the stairs, disappearing into the bustle of the tavern and leaving only the scent of ink and wine and his camellia perfume behind.

Lambert’s always taken his time when cleaning up – he doesn’t enjoy being covered in dirt, he’s not an _animal_ – but he’s especially mindful of it now that he travels with Jaskier. They’ve both found that Jaskier’s performances go a _lot_ better if the witcher lurking in the corner looks at least halfway civilised, and being blood-spattered doesn’t exactly lend itself to that image. The basin in their room is still pink with Jaskier’s blood, now cool, and Lambert doesn’t bother warming it before he starts to clean himself up. He takes the time to properly clean and wrap his split knuckles, because Jaskier will have his head if he doesn’t, and even changes into his last clean shirt. It means he no longer has any shirts for Jaskier to steal, not until they can do some laundry, but Jaskier will have to deal.

(He knows he’ll give in and wash his shirts later in the evening. It’s not like he hates the sight of Jaskier wearing his clothes.)

When he goes downstairs he expects to be met by the raucous singing and foot-stomping Jaskier inevitably incites when he sings; instead, there’s a deferential hush, like the soft intake of breath before a storm. Jaskier is holding court in front of the hearth, his copper-coloured doublet shimmering like the haze of a heatwave as it catches the light of the flames, the bard illuminated like an ethereal being wrapped in living fire. The patrons are clustered around him, tankards in their hands but not drinking, their whole attention on Jaskier as he speaks. He seems to be halfway through some epic poem, voice sonorous and musical, rising and falling like the swell of a heartbeat as he gestures with his hands, languid and slow. Lambert sits a little further away so he doesn’t distract from the performance, fully prepared to just hunker down with an ale until Jaskier is done, but then Jaskier’s voice snakes its way into his ears like the alluring call of a siren and he is, quite without meaning it, _enraptured._ Jaskier is, in that moment, not a man but a shadow of a god, mortal flesh but undying spirit as long as his stories fall from reverent lips. Lambert never before cared for poetry, and never again will he, if he hears it from the mouth of another.

When the recitation ends, there is no applause, merely a drawn out, hushed pause before the tavern shudders back to life, shaking itself as if from a paralysing slumber as it remembers it is a part of the world, released from the soothing grasp of Jaskier’s voice. As people begin to move about the tavern, draining their pints and heading to the bar for a refill, Jaskier wends seamlessly between them, graciously accepting the coins pressed into his hands. He winces discretely as he slips into the rickety chair beside Lambert, but on the whole seems to be in much brighter spirits than earlier in the evening.

A jovial-looking barmaid brings over two steaming bowls, almost overflowing, and she barely has time to set them on the table before Jaskier is digging in, clearly ravenous. He’s so focused on wolfing down the stew that he’s maybe halfway through the bowl before he notices that Lambert hasn’t touched his own food, his eyes instead solely on Jaskier, chin propped up by his hand.

Jaskier holds his gaze self-consciously for a moment, then swallows his mouthful of food loudly. “What?”

“Tell it again,” Lambert says immediately.

Jaskier blinks, surprised, then shrugs agreeably. “Sure.” He takes the opportunity to snatch Lambert’s untouched bread roll, tearing it apart with long fingers and popping small pieces into his mouth. “Later. I’ll tell it when we head back up, just for you.”

Lambert smirks. “Not your usual type of private performance, huh?”

He only laughs when Jaskier rolls his eyes and shoves him.

It’s an odd feeling, to not enjoy being in Oxenfurt. It’s _nice_ to be back, sure, but usually Jaskier relishes the months in a comfortable bed, students hanging onto his every word and hot baths every night if he wants them. He gets restless, eventually, but he still appreciates the break from the road. Usually. This time he was antsy right from the start, and it took him a few days to realise that what he was missing was Lambert. It’s not like he didn’t expect to miss him, he unashamedly considers Lambert a dear friend, but he wasn’t expecting to miss him so fiercely so quickly.

The winter _drags_.

Lambert had promised to come and meet him in Oxenfurt as soon as the passes were clear, but Jaskier’s so eager to see him again he considers setting out to meet him on the road; the only thing that stops him is his students, the stack of essays he has to grade before he slips away, and the final astronomical lecture he’d agreed to give, shored up by his practical knowledge of spending years on the road, navigating by the stars. The lecture runs late into the evening, the sky a gloriously moody purple as he slinks home with his arms full of books, ready for another late night of grading. If he works late enough, he’ll probably be able to finish up the last of his essays, and he can pack up and head out to meet Lambert on the road. It turns out to be pointless – Lambert is waiting in his rooms.

Jaskier practically tosses the books aside, almost tripping over them in his haste to cross the room. Lambert is grinning as Jaskier strong arms him into a hug, all but launching himself into his arms, breathing each other in. Lambert smells of the road and leather tack and his horse, and it’s awful, and Jaskier loves it.

“How was your winter?” Jaskier asks as he extracts himself from Lambert’s arms, hastily gathering up the books from the floor.

“Spectacular.” Lambert drops onto a spot on the floor in front of the fire, leaving the armchair free for Jaskier. “I set Eskel’s goat loose in Geralt’s room, she ate four of his books, his favourite blanket and his only shirt without holes, and then took a shit in his bed. I was so proud.” He mimes wiping away a tear.

Jaskier laughs so hard he triggers a coughing fit, and scrambles for a wine bottle to take a long drink to ease it, ignoring the way Lambert snickers at him.

“And you’re well?” Jaskier asks once he’s able, settling into the chair and handing the wine over to Lambert.

Lambert doesn’t seem to care that it’s not a particularly fine vintage, tossing it back with relish and draining almost half the bottle in one go. “Yeah, fine. Plenty rested, no injuries, all good, forget about me, tell me how the Yule competition went. Did you do the Mariner’s Revenge, or Oran na Cloiche? You won, right?”

Jaskier accepts the bottle thrust back into his hands, trying to hide his surprise that Lambert remembered, that he properly listened when Jaskier spoke. “Of course I won, what do you take me for?”

“That’s my boy!”

A warmth blossoms in Jaskier’s chest and spreads into his bones, settling into his lungs. He drains what’s left in the bottle then heaves himself out of the chair, looking for another. “I can be ready to leave by tomorrow,” he promises, picking out a better vintage. “I have to grade a last few essays first but I can finish them tonight if I work late. I’ll be packed by the morning.”

“Well, does Mister Busy Professor have time to open a couple of gifts first?” Lambert grins at the naked surprise on Jaskier’s face and nods towards a corner of the room; there’s a long, thin package there that Jaskier had completely missed, wrapped in a pretty olive-coloured silk.

“But I don’t have anything for you!” Jaskier protests.

Lambert shrugs. “Didn’t do it to get something in return. You gonna open it or not?”

Jaskier hands the wine to Lambert and retrieves the package, sitting on the floor with it laid across his lap. He carefully undoes the ribbon tied around it, intending to re-use both that and the silk, and pushes the fabric aside. He picks up the longbow first; it’s been carved not by a professional hand, but with care nonetheless, tiny flowers etched into the wood. There’s a glove, quiver and bracer, too, in sturdy black leather tooled with decorative scales, imitating the draconid leather Jaskier’s seen for sale in Novigrad. Finally, there’s a black scabbard and belt, similarly decorated and with silver buckles – he takes a moment to admire the wolf’s head pommel, eyes set with citrine, then takes hold of the cord-bound grip and slowly draws out a double-edged sword.

“You made these,” Jaskier realises, a tremor in his voice, “You made these for me.”

Lambert looks suddenly uncomfortable, rubbing the back of his neck and looking very much like he’d like to hide his face in the wine. “Well, yeah. I mean, they’re, you know. I know you’re not much of a fighter but. Do you hate them?”

Jaskier lays the sword carefully on the ground, then picks himself up and all but sits in Lambert’s lap, hugging him so hard Lambert’s armour digs into him, bruising his ribs. “Nobody’s ever done something like this for me,” he breathes, face pressed into Lambert’s neck. “I _love_ them.”

Lambert lets out a sigh that sounds suspiciously like relief, then awkwardly stands up, depositing Jaskier gently on the floor. “Let’s get a look at you then.” He scoops up the bracer and belt, gently buckling them on and cinching them comfortably tight. Once he’s happy with how the belt is sitting he picks up the sword, much less careful with it than Jaskier was, and moves behind him so he can slide it into the sheath at Jaskier’s hip. He steps back to look Jaskier over, taking his time, and Jaskier shivers under the scrutiny.

“Well?” he demands eventually, “How do I look?”

Lambert grins, all teeth. “Not like a professor, that’s for sure.” He takes a long pull from the bottle of wine, then shoves it into Jaskier’s hands and steers him towards his desk, buried under papers. “Come on, get your shit finished, sword’s no use in the Academy, is it?” He claps Jaskier on the shoulder. “World’s waiting for us.”

It might just be the most motivated Jaskier’s ever been.

As soon as Jaskier gets the bow in his hands, it feels _right_ , like it’s meant to be there, something in his soul singing at the smoothness and the weight of it in his grip. It’s almost enough to distract him from Lambert pressed up against him from behind.

Almost.

Lambert reaches up to gently cup Jaskier’s outstretched left hand, the one with the bow clutched in it, and tilts it ever so slightly, so the bow is at an angle, then makes an approving noise. He draws an arrow from the quiver on Jaskier’s right hip, then wraps his arm _around_ Jaskier, pressed against his chest as he settles the arrow on the string, then fusses again with the hand holding the bow, curling Jaskier’s fingers just so.

“Alright,” he says eventually, finally satisfied with Jaskier’s posture, “take the string with your right hand, one finger above the arrow, two below. Then draw it to right here.” He lightly brushes his fingers against the corner of Jaskier’s mouth, and Jaskier can almost taste the leather of his gloves. “Draw with the shoulder, not the bicep. It’s easier than you think. You just sort of…roll it. I’ll keep my hand on your back, feel the muscle, see how you’re doing it. And keep your front shoulder low.”

“Anything else?” Jaskier asks, half sarcastic as he takes hold of the string, shuffling his fingers around a little.

Lambert shrugs. “Probably. But we’ll start with this. Can’t fix everything all at once.”

Jaskier hums, awkwardly pauses for a moment, overly-conscious of every one of his limbs, then finally draws the bow until his fingers touch the corner of his mouth, a ghost of Lambert’s. Lambert’s hand is on the back of his shoulder, burning hot even through the fabric, and Jaskier can feel when he nods approvingly, satisfied with Jaskier’s draw. There’s a buzz inside him as he releases the arrow, not a thrill but something else, something deep and right in his bones, and there’s a satisfying _thunk_ as the arrow buries itself in the tree; not centred, not where he was aiming, but still _in_ the tree instead of sailing past it.

Lambert claps him on the shoulder proudly. “Good job. Grab another arrow and let’s work on your release. Oh, and spread your legs a little wider.”

If he feels Jaskier shiver, he politely doesn’t mention it.

“I hate Velen,” Jaskier hisses as soon as the tavern girls are out of the room, leaving the steaming bath behind them. They’d been dismissive and rude to Jaskier, but downright aggressive to Lambert, and it stokes his anger more than usual. “I hate the people, I hate the weather, and the damp, I hate everything about this stupid place, I am going to write a hundred ballads about how awful this place is until the entire rest of the Continent hates this place too, I fucking _hate_ Velen.”

“I had no idea,” Lambert says mildly, but he’s grinning. He’s in a decidedly better mood than Jaskier, because even though he’d given Jaskier his cloak as soon as it started to rain, he’s not the one that got dragged into a bog by a drowner, the bastard.

Jaskier peels himself out of his ruined clothes, sodden with rain and bog-mud, and throws them petulantly at Lambert’s head, missing every time. “You unsympathetic clod,” he growls, then clambers into the tub and sinks down into the hot water up to his ears, shuddering in relief and pleasure at the heat of it.

He hears Lambert rummaging around in their bags, the clinking of bottles; he hadn’t realised Lambert was hurt, but if he’s looking for potions he must be. Jaskier sighs, sitting up a little to peer over the rim of the tub. “Come here, let me see where you’re hurt.”

“I’m not.” Lambert comes to sit by the tub, and it’s not potion bottles in his hands but Jaskier’s oils and soaps. “You always take care of me. I’m gonna take care of you.”

Jaskier’s mouth falls open a little in surprise, and he’s sure he’s blushing like when he was an innocent youth fresh out of Oxenfurt. People don’t take care of Jaskier. Even when he’s invited to spend days, weeks, months in noble estates with patrons who fawn over him incessantly, they don’t take care of him. Jaskier is the one that takes care of other people, and he does enjoy it, don’t get him wrong, but to be the one being fussed over for once would be – well.

“I’d like that,” Jaskier croaks, clearly an understatement, and Lambert smiles, soft and sweet and not at all his usual manner, a quick glimpse beneath his armour.

Lambert puts his hands on Jaskier’s shoulder and gently pushes, encouraging him down to wet his hair; Jaskier slips right on under the water, enjoying the sudden muffled silence of the world, the warmth enveloping him, the grounding touch of Lambert’s hands lingering on his shoulders. When Lambert’s hands disappear, Jaskier follows them up, but stays as low in the water as he can. Even with the fire blazing merrily, the air in the room is still chilly. Lambert begins uncorking bottles and sniffing each one critically until he finds one he likes, then pours a generous amount into his hands and begins working it into Jaskier’s hair. His fingers are slow and firm, digging in to all the right places. The scent of oakmoss and cedar and apple drifts to his nose, subtle and fresh, and he swears he can feel his limbs melt away to nothing. Lambert takes his time, working over every inch of Jaskier’s scalp and neck until he’s limp and floaty, then empties more soap into his hands and begins to clean the rest of him with careful attention – massages down to his hands, his callouses smoothing over Jaskier’s, then back up his arms, down his chest, lower, lower, until his hands are rubbing over Jaskier’s thighs, and by the gods, he’s glad he’s far too peaceful for his cock to take any real attention.

“You need to do this more often,” Jaskier sighs.

He isn’t expecting to hear Lambert’s laboured voice rumble, “gladly.”

When Lambert indicates the clearing they’ve come to is suitable for camping that night, he waits for Jaskier to delicately clamber down from the horse, but doesn’t get down himself.

“Can you set up camp for us?” he asks instead. “There was a griffin by that last town we passed, maybe ten miles back.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, surprised, “you’ve a contract?”

“Something like that. There’s deer nearby. See if you can’t manage to snag us some dinner.” He nods to Jaskier’s bow, now always on his back; Jaskier’s still not the best archer, still learning, but he’s flattered that Lambert thinks him capable enough of providing for them.

“I’ll do my best. And you’ll be careful?”

“I’ll be careful,” Lambert promises solemnly, then turns his horse about and canters off back in the direction they’d come from.

Jaskier’s plenty confident that Lambert will be back hale and well – what he’s _not_ confident about is him being back in short order. It may not be the longest of journeys, but there’s never any telling how long it will take to even find the creature, let alone kill it. So dubious is he, in fact, that he almost considers not hunting any food, convinced it won’t be needed, but Lambert had only asked one thing of him, and he’d hardly be a worthy travel companion if he couldn’t even manage that.

Jaskier makes the effort to stash their bags as securely as he can, then takes his bow in hand and slinks into the trees, scouting around until he finds somewhere he can squirrel himself away and wait. He’s not exactly well suited to spending hours being still, but he’s come to appreciate it as he ages, and especially the opportunities it provides to settle himself among nature and let it seep beneath his skin, ideas percolating in his head as he waits for a deer to come by. He’s never doubtful of getting the kill, his archery isn’t _that_ bad, but making it _clean_ is his biggest concern. It turns out he needn’t have worried; he lands the shot perfectly and it goes right down, barely even aware. It’s a struggle to get it back to the campsite alone, and even harder to get it strung up from a tree by himself, but he manages, and it’s not like he’s in any rush – he refuses to go to sleep before Lambert returns, and he’ll need a way to occupy himself in the meantime, so he takes his time laying out their camp, stripping the deer, setting it to cook in the pot with some mushrooms and carrots, long and slow.

Lambert’s gone almost all night.

It’s on the verge of growing light when Jaskier hears the heavy clumping of the horse through the undergrowth. He’s not at all expecting the horse to emerge dragging the body of the griffin behind it, trussed up in a complicated series of ropes.

“For fucks sake, Lambert!” Jaskier cries, stumbling to his feet and to Lambert’s side, hurriedly checking him over for injuries, for damage to his amour. “What on earth are you doing with a griffin _here_? Surely the contract issuer needs to see it?”

“Royal griffin,” Lambert mutters, obligingly letting Jaskier look him over, “and there was no contract.”

“But you said – “

“I said ‘something like that’. It’s for you.”

Jaskier stares at him incredulously. “Not that I don’t appreciate it,” he says carefully, “but what the fuck am I meant to do with a dead griffin.”

He’s almost expecting Lambert to laugh it off, make some sort of sarcastic comment, point out some ridiculously practical use that Jaskier simply hadn’t considered; instead, he ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck, more awkward and self-conscious than Jaskier’s ever seen him.

“It’s – well, I mean it’s – I mean. Fuck.” He huffs under his breath, like he’s psyching himself up. “It’s. I’ve. I’ve been courting you. It’s a courting gift.”

“…oh.” Jaskier lets his hand drift to his waist, to the sword there, runs his fingers over the wolf head of the pommel. “That’s why you made me those things, isn’t it? Why you always give me the biggest portion of food, and the most furs at night.”

Lambert nods, turning to free his horse from the burden of the dead griffin with deliberate movements, so he doesn’t have to look at Jaskier. “A witcher can’t provide stability, or a home, or children, or much of anything, really. So if we want to court someone, we try to show what we _can_ offer. That we can care for you, protect you, that we’re strong enough.” He gestures towards the griffin, and when Jaskier looks at it he no longer sees simply a corpse but instead Lambert’s efforts to show that he _wants_ Jaskier, that he’s _worthy_ of him, as if Jaskier isn’t the one that’s unworthy of Lambert. “I understand if you don’t want this,” he continues, like he hasn’t just unseated the foundations of Jaskier’s world, “but I like being friends with you, and travelling with you, so if we could- “

Jaskier cuts him off as he turns, all but throwing himself upon Lambert and crashing their lips together, clumsy, hasty. Lambert’s arms go right to Jaskier’s waist, like he’s been wanting them to find their home there, clinging like Jaskier is his tether to the earth. Jaskier kisses him until he runs out of air, then presses their foreheads together, hands cradling Lambert’s face.

“You were _courting_ me,” he breathes, enchanted. “I’ve never been courted before.”

“Wanted to do it properly,” Lambert mumbles, their breath mingling together. “Figured you’d like that poetic shit. Can I kiss you again? Please say I can kiss you again.”

Jaskier answers with their lips together once more, kissing as filthily as he can, licking and nipping and sucking, trying to make it unmistakeably clear that he wants Lambert to do a lot more than kiss, and oh, he reads Jaskier so well. Lambert’s clever hands trail down his spine, whisper-light, then dip under the waistband of his trousers, pawing at his ass like he wants to memorise every inch with his fingers. Lambert leaves his mouth only to press his nose into Jaskier’s neck, breathing in deep, _scenting_ him, clutches at him just a little tighter. It might be the most erotic situation Jaskier’s ever found himself in, right up until the moment he looks over Lambert’s shoulder.

“Darling, your gift is watching us.”

Lambert swears impressively, untangles himself from Jaskier to throw his saddle blanket over the griffin’s head, quickly rummages in his saddlebags for something, then for good measure herds Jaskier into the trees until the griffin is completely obscured from view. He crowds himself against Jaskier, forcing him to take steps back like a predator upon a morsel until Jaskier’s back hits the tree. He cages Jaskier with his arms, but it doesn’t feel like a threat or a prison, just a safe haven, where all Jaskier can see is the look in Lambert’s eyes, the _desire,_ naked and adoring. Lambert returns his attentions to Jaskier’s neck, and when he kisses the tender skin there, he kisses to _mark_ , to claim, and it’s a thought that makes Jaskier’s knees go weak.

Jaskier lets himself sag against Lambert, looking to press against every inch of skin that he can, cover himself in Lambert’s warmth; Lambert hooks an arm underneath him and hoists him up, pressing Jaskier against the trunk as he wraps his legs around Lambert’s waist, clutches at the back of Lambert’s shirt. He needs only the one hand to keep Jaskier aloft, the other free to roam, eager and impertinent.

“One day, I’m going to take you apart,” Lambert promises, breathless as he fumbles one-handed at the ties to Jaskier’s breeches. “I want you in _my_ bed, at Kaer Morhen, get the smell of you all over the sheets, make sure it never comes out. Been thinking about it for weeks,” he admits, entirely shameless. He lets his grip ease on Jaskier just enough for him to slide downwards, feel the bulge in Lambert’s pants brush against the spot just behind his balls. “You feel what you do to me?”

Jaskier groans as Lambert finally slips his hand inside his breeches, calloused fingers working slowly over Jaskier’s cock, savouring the feel of it. “Tell me,” he gasps against Lambert’s neck, “tell me what else you thought about.”

“I want to fuck you in the morning, before we’ve even got out of bed. Take my time with you, make it last. I want you so full of my come it’s all you can think about.” He twists his hand just so, revelling in the way Jaskier’s breath hitches. “I’ve got a toy I got in Toussaint, a plug, made of marble. Want to put it in you, watch you walk around all day knowing it’s keeping my seed inside you, that it’s all you’ll be able to think about, I want to watch it drip down your thighs when I take the plug out. I want to smell the scent of me on your skin and know that you’re mine, and I’m yours, that you could have any man on the continent but you chose _me_. Right now, though, I’m impatient,” he murmurs down Jaskier’s ear, withdrawing his hand and ignoring the little whine Jaskier makes at the loss. “Right now I just want to be inside you.”

He doesn’t miss the sudden catch in Jaskier’s breath, the stutter of it, and Jaskier can feel him grinning against his neck. “What’s the matter?” Lambert teases, a smile in his voice, “never done this before?”

Jaskier flushes from his neck to his ears. “Well, actually…”

“Seriously? Thought you were well practiced in the carnal arts, the unofficial eighth liberal art of Oxenfurt Academy.”

“I am!” Jaskier protests, “Very! But people have only ever wanted – _expected_ , even, me to be on the other end of things, so outside of my own fingers and a few toys I _also_ picked up in Toussaint I fear I’m a little out of my depth. I can only apologise.”

“Actually, this is perfect.”

“It is?”

Lambert fumbles for his own breeches, breathing getting heavier as he takes himself out, touches himself with languid movements that Jaskier can’t take his eyes off. “Means I get to be your first. All mine.”

“All yours,” Jaskier agrees, nudging Lambert’s hand aside to replace it with his own, leaving Lambert free to tug Jaskier’s breeches further down, the air chilling his backside.

Lambert produces the jar he’d acquired from the saddlebags – oil, of course – and dribbles just a little into Jaskier’s hand, keeping the rest back for himself; he presses the jar into Jaskier’s free hand, encourages him to pour a _very_ liberal amount onto Lambert’s fingers leaving them wet and dripping. If Lambert is impatient, he at least has more restraint than Jaskier does; Jaskier’s fingers are quick and deft around the weight of Lambert, heavy and hot in his hand, deliciously hard before Lambert had even laid a finger on him. Every eager movement of Jaskier’s hand draws little gasps and moans from Lambert’s mouth, sparking increasingly anticipatory shivers from Jaskier.

His shivers only increase as he feels Lambert’s fingers at his entrance, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles, letting him adjust to the feel of it.

“You’ll tell me if I hurt you?”

“You could never hurt me,” Jaskier insists, “not you.” The last word dies on a groan as Lambert slips inside him, slowly, gloriously slick. It feels _different_ when it’s someone else’s fingers, thicker than his own, rougher yet so, so gentle. Lambert kisses him eagerly as he presses deeper inside, nipping at his bottom lip, pressing his tongue into his mouth, the hand holding Jaskier up digging into his backside, like he wants to touch all of him at once and can’t decide where to start. He starts slow as he stretches Jaskier, then begins to quicken as his enthusiasm grows, delighting in the way Jaskier opens up for him with his breathless little moans. Whenever Jaskier’s hand stutters and slows around Lambert’s cock, Lambert slows his pace to match, speeds up when Jaskier does, the pair of them moving in tandem like a man and his shadow, two halves of a whole. He slips a second finger inside when Jaskier is gasping for it, the slick making a wet, filthy sound that has them both groaning. Lambert slows with the third, Jaskier tight around his fingers and murmuring a mantra of ‘fuck, fuck, fuck’ to himself, squirming as Lambert’s fingers move inside him, feeling the rough bark of the tree against his back through his shirt, a sharp contrast to the pleasure sparking and warming through him.

“Thought you said you were impatient to get it in me,” he protests, soft whines as he kisses whatever inch of Lambert’s skin he can reach, the taste earthy and sweaty and wonderful.

Lambert only presses deeper, drinking in Jaskier’s moan, unrestrained. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“I’ve taken toys Lambert, I’m sure I can take you.”

Lambert makes a doubtful noise, but withdraws his hand even as Jaskier makes a dismayed noise at the loss, shifting his grip so Jaskier is held a little higher, positioned right where Lambert wants him. Jaskier reluctantly releases Lambert’s cock, and only does so that he can receive something _better_ , trembling as he clutches his fists into Lambert’s shirt. Lambert empties what’s left in the vial of oil over his cock, then eases it inside, slowly, so slowly; the noise he makes is sinful, almost reverent, feeling Jaskier clench around him and groan and gasp, urging him on with a need he didn’t know he could feel.

Lambert chuckles breathlessly. “Bet you’re regretting being so cocky now, huh?”

“Shut – shut the fuck up. I said I could take you and you’re yet to prove me wrong.”

“Don’t want to prove you wrong. I want to take you apart.”

They groan in tandem as Lambert bottoms out, stilling inside Jaskier to the hilt, savouring the feel of him, the wet warmth, the slick between them that runs down Lambert’s balls in a torturous line. Jaskier _squirms_ , and each little movement is perfect friction on Lambert’s cock; he rocks just a little in return, testing, still so cautious, but for every press up of Lambert’s hips Jaskier’s press _down_ , encouraging him on until Lambert begins to thrust in earnest. Beautiful noises spill from Jaskier’s mouth, louder and louder, lost into the canopy of leaves above them with no cause for Jaskier to hold them back.

Lambert is a little quieter but no less devoted, pressing his mouth to Jaskier’s ear so he can hear every punched-out groan, the gasps, the whines. In between Jaskier’s moans the air is filled with the slap of skin on skin, the sound of it driving Lambert faster, more eager. He’s so ready to spill, has _been_ ready since he first got his hands on Jaskier’s sweet skin, but he’s more concerned with Jaskier’s pleasure than his own, wants Jaskier satisfied before he thinks of himself. He takes Jaskier’s cock in hand and jerks with erratic movements, quick, desperate, and all self-control is lost at the noise Jaskier makes as he comes, hot over Lambert’s fist, and Lambert follows him right over, spilling inside him.

Jaskier goes limp in his arms, nuzzling into Lambert’s neck, soft and sated; as Lambert pulls out, his hearing is enough to pick up on the sound of slick and come dripping into the leaves at their feet, and he shudders.

“Take me to Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier slurs, breath hot against Lambert’s skin. “I want everything you talked about. Give me everything.”

“Soon,” Lambert promises. “Next year. I just want it to be us for a while. Just me and you.” He pulls them back away from the tree and sits down in the undergrowth, getting Jaskier comfortable in his lap while they pull themselves back together, smoothing over the skin of his back in long, soothing strokes.

“Hm, that sounds nice. Let’s take a nap and you can show me how to harvest my griffin.”

Gods, Lambert is in _love._

“I made you something.”

Jaskier is curled in a threadbare armchair by the fire, bare feet tucked under him, carefully writing out every detail Lambert has given him about katakan. He glances up at Lambert and smiles sweetly, warmly. “Are you still courting me? Dearest, I think we can agree you’ve _quite_ won me over.”

Lambert huffs, awkward but stubborn. “I said I wanted to do this properly, and it’s not finished yet.”

“Oh. I see there’s an established ritual to this.” Jaskier deliberately puts his notebook aside, giving Lambert his fullest attention. “Very well then, you may proceed to woo me.”

Lambert fumbles inside his shirt, no doubt into the little pocket he has secreted there, and withdraws something wrapped in a charmingly-coloured lace handkerchief. He presses it into Jaskier’s hands, and when Jaskier unwraps it he finds inside a locket. It’s understated but still stunningly attractive, oval shaped and set with fine Skelligan pearls and a single piece of angelite, the colour of the doublet Jaskier was wearing when they first met. When he pops it open, he finds inside a tiny, wonderfully detailed painting of an eye – _Lambert’s_ eye. It’s undoubtedly his own work, Jaskier drinks in every drawing of Lambert’s at every opportunity he gets, and now he has one all for his own, to hang over his heart. He runs his fingers over it reverently, beams up at Lambert.

“I’ll never take it off,” he vows. “Put it on me.”

Lambert looks terribly pleased with himself, moving behind Jaskier’s chair to drape the delicate silver chain around his neck, fingertips lingering over the skin as he fastens the clasp. Lambert bends down to press a kiss to Jaskier’s cheek, stubble rough on the soft skin, and Jaskier leans into it with a pleased noise.

“How does it look?”

“Not found anything you don’t look perfect in.”

“Oh, you _flatterer_ ,” Jaskier laughs, delighted. “Do it again.”

The whole miserable slog up the mountain, Lambert keeps one eye on Jaskier, just in case. It’s bitterly cold, yet Jaskier is in high spirits, and plenty warm; he’d bundled himself into as many clothes as he could manage, several shirts and a gambeson, the prettily-tooled cuirass lambert had made for him the year before, thick gloves and two pairs of woollen socks and two cloaks. He’s not toasty, but he’s comfortable enough. When the path allows it, he rides close enough by Lambert’s side that they can hold hands, fingers intertwined, and they chatter the whole way up. Jaskier’s cheeks and nose are pink from the cold, breath hanging in the air, but his eyes are bright, continuous joy at the wonders of the world infectious, even as they come upon the keep, more ruined every time Lambert sets eyes on it.

Jaskier thinks it’s romantic. Of course he does.

The courtyard is busy when they arrive, or as busy as it can be when filled only by three witchers and their horses; they’re already working on repairs, it seems, either to simply get a head start and get the work out of the way, or because the work is too urgent to wait. Eskel is, predictably, the one to notice him first, Geralt too busy fussing over his fucking horse like it’s a particularly desirable woman, Vesemir continuing his trend of pretending to be as indifferent to Lambert as possible.

“Where the fuck were _you_ last year?” Eskel demands, grinning, as Lambert dismounts from his horse, clapping him on the shoulder. “We thought you’d died.”

“I was in Oxenfurt,” Lambert says casually, making sure to stand aside so Jaskier has room to dismount beside him.

Jaskier cheerfully offers a hand to Eskel, but before he has chance to open his mouth to introduce himself – well, Geralt happens.

“What the fuck is the bard doing here?” he growls, stomping over with the cleaning rag for his tack tossed over his shoulder; he probably came over to gawp at the new horse, rather than the rider.

To his credit, Jaskier merely smiles wryly at Eskel, refusing to give Geralt a second glance. “Well, after that I hardly think I need to give an introduction, but _some_ of us have manners. My friends call me Jaskier, and I see no reason not to count you in that number.”

“I can see many reasons,” Geralt hisses, grabbing Lambert by the arm and yanking him away, though deliberately not far enough that Jaskier cannot hear him. “Is this funny to you?”

Lambert raises an eyebrow, deliberately extracts his arm. “I thought you’d be glad to see him,” he drawls “last I heard the two of you were travelling the continent together, great friends both.”

“You heard wrong. He’s a nightmare. How do you even put up with him, you shove your dick down his throat to silence his fucking screeching? Should’ve known when you finally find a whore with little enough self-respect to lie with you it’d be that pampered fop. I spent twenty fucking years trying to shake loose the _leech_ , I finally succeed, and then you have the audacity to drag him here. What, I haven’t suffered his presence enough, now you want to curse us all with him? Infect the only safe space we have left? Soil the keep with his clinging and his melodramatics, his poisonous existence? You’d do better to take him to the forest and leave him there before he can ruin everyone else’s lives the way he ruined mine –“

Whatever else he’s about to spit is lost, stolen from his mouth as Lambert calmly drives his fist into it. The force behind it, the sheer vitriol, takes Geralt by surprise, takes him to the floor.

Lambert stands over him, affecting nonchalance as he shakes out his hand. “You don’t talk about my husband that way,” he says coolly.

Geralt’s face contorts into incredulity, sprawled in the wet slush of the courtyard, freezing in the motion of wiping the blood from his nose. “Your _what_.”

“My husband,” he repeats slowly, over-enunciating, “I married him.”

Geralt spits blood into the snow. “ _Why_?”

“Did I knock all the fucking sense out of your head? Because I love him! I love the look in his eye when he sings, the way his leg bounces when he’s stuck composing, the fact he’s not squeamish about getting nekker guts in his hair. I love the fact he’s not afraid to be soft when the world is hard. And you know what, yeah, I love the way he sucks my dick, love the sounds he makes around me, like I’m a fucking delicacy. I love his _clinging_ , and his _melodramatics_ , and his _glorious fucking existence_. I love him because he’s brave and smart and kind and selfless, and he’s _mine_.”

The silence that follows seems to echo around the courtyard, the weight of it settling in all the nooks and corners, Lambert’s claim as steady and solid as the keep’s foundations, still standing even after all their assaults. The silence is broken as Jaskier’s horse sneezes and snorts with absurdly comedic timing, blowing the tension away.

“Well, yeah, but how’d you convince him to marry _you_ , you rat bastard?” Eskel says good-naturedly.

“He killed me a griffin,” Jaskier answers proudly, making a point to ruffle the griffin feathers adorning his thickest cloak.

“A _royal_ griffin, actually.” Just like that, it’s as if Lambert has forgotten that Geralt exists, slinging his arm around Eskel’s neck and leading him inside the keep, loudly recounting the tale of how he brought the beast down.

Jaskier takes a great, petty satisfaction in striding past Geralt, still sitting stunned on the floor, to where Vesemir is offering a hand in introduction. When Jaskier takes it, Vesemir envelops Jaskier’s hand in both of his warmly, eyes crinkling with a smile.

“Welcome to the family, I suppose.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you’re wondering whether Lambert spends the whole winter referring to Jaskier as his husband at every single opportunity, yes, yes he does.
> 
> Fun fact! The painting of the eye in a locket is a real Victorian courting ritual, and since I firmly believe that Lambert is the painter at Kaer Morhen, there’s no way I wasn’t including it.
> 
> Another fun fact; the year that lambert went to Oxenfurt instead of Kaer Morhen is when he and Jaskier got married.
> 
> Yes, Coppernob and Brazen Hussy really are varieties of Celandine. I feel like both Lambert and Jaskier would lowkey find that hilarious. Also, Celandine is part of the Buttercup family, so a flower from that family called the Brazen Hussy is just made for Jaskier let’s be honest.
> 
> And finally, the two songs Lambert asks about, [Oran na Cloiche](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=woydj4RX4mY&ab_channel=eireann0) and [the Mariner’s Revenge](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LD165Xn2PXw&ab_channel=KillRockStars) are absolute bangers and you should give them a listen - Oran na Cloiche was my Spotify top song of 2020, which I guess is another fun fact.
> 
> [Come say hi on twitter!!](https://twitter.com/Caelanmiriel)


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